“Hey.” I grin, the expression feeling fake on my face.
“You’re staying on this floor, too?” Hayes looks way too refreshed for just having taken the same plane ride I did, and his three-piece suit required of players to wear for travel is miraculously unwrinkled.
We haven’t spoken since the night in the supply closet. It’s been about a week, and though I’ve seen him peripherally at the ballpark, we’ve avoided each other. The gossip and rumor mill about us has slowed down, and chasing their next story about some other team’s player who had been caught with cocaine and strippers, so too had my assault fallen to the back of the media cycle.
But neither of us has broached what happened in that closet. Or what he said to me. I replay that moment over and over again, when I’m alone in the dark, and whenever I can’t seem to get it out of my head into the middle of a work day. He wants me, so bad that he aches. That’s what he said. Our texting has stopped, and it’s strange that I miss him, miss his witty banter throughout the day. So many times, I’ve picked up my phone to send him something, and then stopped myself.
I meant what I said in that closet, we can’t actually do this, but lord do I want to. There isn’t even a word for how much I want to kiss him again, for how deep the yearning is.
“I am.” I nod, hoping that he’ll just go to his room.
Hayes’ green eyes flick down to the ice bucket I’m holding. “I have to go get some myself, could use a drink. Is that what you’re doing?”
His friendly grin is loaded, and we’re both walking on shaky ground right now. As it is, it’ll be hard knowing he’s staying in the same hallway as I am.
“Yep, that’s what I’m doing.” I’m being strange, and he catches on.
“Everything all right?” Those gorgeous blond locks sway as he tilts his head to the side.
I blow out a breath. “Oh, everything aside from the universe trying to mess with me. Again. I locked myself out.”
Half-expecting him to laugh, I’m surprised when Hayes just clucks his tongue, tips his chin up, and shakes his head at the ceiling, as if to admonish the universe for trying to mess with me.
“Come on, let’s grab dinner.” Hayes nods his head toward the bank of elevators.
It’s the last thing I expect him to say, and my heart gallops like it’s trying to keep up with my rapidly unraveling mind.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “I have no shoes, and I really should just go downstairs and explain. Hopefully, the front desk will give me a new key. It’s been a long day.”
“We can have them prep a new key for you when we get back, and there are flip-flops in the gift shop. You look like you might keel over, and I happen to know where they serve the best lobster rolls and fried soft-shell crab in the city.”
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles so hard that Hayes looks down at it with an approving smirk. I guess I can’t use the excuse that I’m not hungry, especially since just his words are making my mouth water. But the idea … well, it’s not particularly a good one.
“Hayes, someone could see us together.” My head shake is firm.
“We’re a player and a general manager, talking contract negotiations about my playing for Packton next year. Or at least that’s what we’ll tell them if they ask.” The finely tailored shoulders of his sleek navy suit shrug easily.
And because I’m tired, and hungry, and deep down just really do want to spend more time with this man …
This is how I end up wearing white rubber flip-flops with a three-hundred-dollar dress on my first date with Hayes Swindell.
22
Hayes
Half an hour and a gift shop purchase of flip-flops later, Colleen and I are seated at one of my favorite seafood joints in Baltimore.
I’ve played in the league for a long time, so my travels have always taken me to the city, and the inner harbor is one of my favorite places to explore when we’re not on the opposing team’s field. The orange brick walk by the water, the buildings overlooking the nautical port, the seafood that is incomparable, the aquarium. Last time I was in town, I rented a boat one afternoon and took some of my teammate’s out fishing.
Luckily, the hotel we’re staying at is pretty close to all the hot spots in the harbor, considering the ball park is located right here.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually come down here,” Colleen mused on our way over as she looked around at all the lights and sounds.
The hostess at the small restaurant I’ve come to frequent on trips to Baltimore hands us drink and food menus and then promises our waiter will be over shortly.
“You’ve never been here?” I ask, waving my hand around.
She shakes her head across the table from me. “Most road trips, I usually stay in my room catching up on work. Or my father would take meetings with agents and I’d stay back, grab room service or something. Now that I think about it, that’s kind of pathetic. I’ve been in so many cities in this country, but never actually seen them.”
“I feel that way too, sometimes. Then about two seasons ago, I made a promise to myself that I’d actually enjoy the view since my job requires me to travel so much. My … well, I’m not sure what I call him. Do you know Bryant Templeman?”
Colleen’s brown eyes seem to search the air and then register. “Yes. Oh, of course, yes. I love his articles. Been reading them for years.”
“He and his wife are kind of my family, I guess. Anyway, he was always on me to enjoy the perks that came with traveling so often. When I first made it to the big leagues, he told me that I could let this career grind me down, or use it as a free ride to culture myself as well as play a sport I love. I didn’t take that advice seriously until recently, but I’m glad I did before this all comes to an end.”
She blinks. “That’s actually quite beautiful. It’s a good perspective to put things in, and I should take his advice, too. Lord knows, I never give myself a break. Your version of living this major league life sounds far more fun than mine does.”
I shrug, sending a look down at the wine list.
It feels nice to talk to someone about my life, especially someone I’m genuinely interested in. I don’t talk about Bryant often, or about what I’m trying to get out of life. But with Colleen, these types of conversations seem to come naturally. Actually, all types of conversations do with her.
Our waiter comes over, introduces himself, and then asks if we’d like anything to drink.
“I’m really not well-versed when it comes to wine,” I admit, because I’m not. “Do you see anything you’d like?”
Colleen scans the list. “Can we do a bottle of this Pinot Grigio?”
The waiter nods, tells her it’s a great choice, and then scurries off.
“Hope that’s okay. I only know about wine from client meetings I’ve been on, but I like to think I pick halfway decent ones.”
I smile. “Anything you pick will be better than my taste. I’m usually a whiskey or scotch man.”
“Most men wouldn’t admit to that, it’d be a complete embarrassment to the age-old, ridiculous chivalry of date etiquette.” Colleen inhales sharply. “Not that this is a date, I mean …”
Her wide eyes make me chuckle. “I hate that ritual, a man ordering for a woman. Half the time, I don’t even know what I want to eat. How am I supposed to guess, having never been out with you, what you want? It’s stupid and sexist if you ask me. As for the date part, I’d like to call it that if I knew it wouldn’t make you bolt for the door.”
I mean it. Ever since the supply closet, though it ended badly, I’ve wanted to take her out. Hell, I wanted to take her out long before that. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I was attracted. But my misplaced hatred of her family, who she is in the organization, and my own inability to juggle both playing and personal life held me back.
Now that I’ve kissed her … well, I can’t take my mind off of it. This was probably what other men talked about when they mentioned meeting the r
ight woman and it all just clicking. I’m tired, like I told her, of bringing up why this is a bad idea. I’m tired of making excuses why we can’t at least explore an us as a possibility.
“Hayes, thank you for asking me here, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea.” Her amber-colored eyes are shifty, assessing the restaurant every second to make sure no one notices us.
Reaching across the table in what is a very risky move, I lay my hand over hers. “We don’t have to make this a big deal. We are two people, having dinner. If anyone recognizes us, we explain it away. There doesn’t have to be some big conversation tonight, even about the supply closet, though I do want to talk about it. Let’s just relax. Aren’t you tired of all the drama, the tension? Can’t we just be content for one night?”
Her face seems to soften a bit, and she smiles a sheepish, but slightly flirty grin. “Okay, you win. For this dinner, at least, we can be just …”
I have a feeling she’s about to say us and is saved by the waiter when he comes to take our dinner order. Studying her while she weighs her indecision between the soft shell crab or the Alaskan king crab stuffed shrimp, I can’t help the way my eyes roam over her face in the flickering candle at the center of our table.
Colleen is a beautiful woman, there is no doubt about that. Her features are gorgeous, the tiny ski slope of her nose and her round, high and typically flushed cheeks. Those big doe eyes, the color of a perfectly aged scotch. All of that whiskey-brown hair swirling around her petite frame. I want to get lost in her for hours, though I know I need to make her more comfortable before I propose something like that.
There is a spark between us that just does it for me. Colleen is as beautiful as she is real, a stone’s throw from a lot of the women I encounter as a professional athlete and a Los Angeles resident. When I saw her standing outside her hotel room, later to learn she’d locked herself out, I knew it was fate intervening.
She was jealous of Marlena being in that family suite, which means she’s just as affected by me as I am by her. I couldn’t help kissing her in that supply closet, and wish I could do so out in the open now. I’m not sure when the tide of my feelings turned for her, but between all I’ve seen her do professionally, and how she handles herself in tough situations, it makes me even more attracted to her.
The rest of our dinner goes well, with both of us silently agreeing to drop all the tension and expectations or boundaries between us. We talk about stupid stuff, like our favorite Christmas present we ever received or the last place either of us has eaten truly delicious seafood. For her, it’s Montauk. For me, it’s Malibu.
By the time the check comes, which I wrestle from Colleen’s grip with a wink, we’re more relaxed with each other than we’ve ever been in person. This dynamic finally feels as comfortable as we did when we were texting for those couple of days after she was attacked in the parking lot. It’s friendly with some heavy flirtation hiding just underneath the surface.
The walk back to the hotel is picturesque, as it’s a breezy night to walk along the water.
“Do you have a boat?” she asks randomly.
I shake my head. “No, too much maintenance. I like to go out on the water, but that kind of upkeep for something I’m not truly invested in? No, thanks. My house back in LA is on the beach, though, so I do have jet skis.”
“I love to jet ski. Well, I haven’t done it in a long time. Actually, it’s been a long time since I took a vacation. But if I did take one, jet skiing would be on top of the list in terms of excursions.”
I can’t help but be distracted by the thought of her in a bikini, her legs straddled over the roaring engine of a jet ski.
“What is your favorite kind of vacation?” I clear my throat, hoping she doesn’t notice how husky it has suddenly become.
“Definitely the kind where you lie on the beach and someone brings you drinks with little umbrellas. Or maybe occupying a seat at a swim-up bar on some island resort. When you’re as busy and travel as much as we all do in the professional sports world, I have no desire to go on a sight-seeing vacation. I want to be as lazy as I possibly can. Preferably with many massages included.”
And now I’m picturing rubbing a naked Colleen down on a massage table, or having her underneath me on a beach chair on some secluded white sand. Maybe this line of questioning isn’t as innocent as I would have liked.
We pass a small park inside a fancy little condo neighborhood. The development reminds me of something in Alexandria, a place Bryant has taken me once or twice when I played games in DC as a minor leaguer. It’s upper crust and expensive, this inner harbor paradise, but it doesn’t make it any less appealing.
The garden is gated off, but I can make out that there is no lock in between the vines of ivy growing up the red brick walls meant to keep outsiders from entering.
I lace my fingers in Colleen’s, a move that must take her by surprise, because she startles a little, and walks us toward the community’s garden.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to go in here,” Colleen hisses.
“Then you better keep your voice down.” I throw a smirk over my shoulder.
Pushing it open, the gate creeks slightly, and we slip inside. We’re greeted by darkness and silence.
Using our connected hands, I swing her gently into me, until she’s close enough that I can settle both of my hands on her hips.
“I wouldn’t be able to do this back at the hotel, or anywhere near the vicinity of it. And it’s been such a nice night, perfect actually. Flip-flops and all.” I grin, moving slowly so that our noses touch. “I don’t want to be one of those men who leaves you with indecision, wondering if I was going to kiss you or if I’m just being respectful. Because believe me, I want to do many things that aren’t respectful when it comes to you. At least here, I can do it in private.”
Before she can speak, I lean in, waiting for her to tilt up, giving me implied permission to kiss her. Colleen does, her eyelashes fluttering closed down onto her cheeks, and then I take her mouth.
The kiss is gentle and measured, with me holding back a lot of inner heat bubbling up from my balls and making my cock go rigid. But this is a first date kiss, not the passionate, forbidden kind in a closet. The breeze blows between the space our close-knit bodies create, and it feels like our lips mold together forever. I’m dizzy by the time I pull back, and Colleen can’t seem to be able to open her eyes.
“Let’s go get you that hotel key. Wouldn’t want you to be locked out all night.” I smirk, and a small smile forms on her thoroughly kissed lips.
Although, if she simply had to spend the night in my room, I would not complain.
23
Colleen
Whitney’s backyard has been transformed into a full-on circus.
No, seriously, she spared no expense for her youngest son’s third birthday party. There is an entire petting zoo over in one corner of her massive lawn, a clown doing magic tricks, two ponies with a female acrobat flipping between their backs, a row of carnival games and face-painting, and then the line of food trucks serving free food from funnel cakes to cheesy corn on a stick.
“Hi, buddy.” I bend to kiss and ruffle the top of Kyle’s hair. “Happy birthday!”
He holds up three stubby, sticky fingers to me. “I’m three today!”
“I know!” I exclaim, examining his fingers and figuring out he definitely has had too much cotton candy. “Did you get to ride a pony yet?”
His tiny head bops up and down. “And Mom says there is a camel coming later!”
My nephew, what I call him even though Whitney is my cousin, runs off and his mom walks up.
“He is never going to sleep tonight,” she says, shaking her head even though she’s smiling.
“He’s having the time of his life, let him. You doing okay? This is amazing.”
“And absolutely ridiculous, you can say it. Ian already has. But it’s wonderful and Kyle loves it, so I don’t even care. I’m okay. Glad I hire
d the food trucks so we didn’t have to lift a finger with food. That’s always the worst part.”
I nod like I understand, even though I don’t. There are dozens of parents and children here, some of them from the Callahan brood. My cousins have boys and girls abound, and I’ve spent time with a lot of babies, toddlers, and kids in my family. But I’m still not a natural around them. Sure, I’ve watched the boys for Whitney when she was in a jam once or twice, but I’ve never had that motherly instinct.
Probably because I barely have a mother of my own, and the role my father was supposed to take on when she left wasn’t even filled by a parent who possessed the gene of compassion.
My mother and father met when they were in college. Both rich kids, both the offspring of wealthy families at an Ivy League university. It was as much a marriage of status and convenience as it was a marriage for love, or at least that’s how my father told it. Yes, my father told me the story of how my parents never should have married when I was about thirteen, so that’s all you need to know about the kind of environment I grew up in.
She took off when I was about eight. After my childhood spent playing third wheel to my parent’s lavish vacations and explosive fights, followed by chilly months on end where they would barely communicate, she walked out on us. My memories of her now are fuzzy and sparse, because as it was, she hardly spent time with me. I was mostly raised by nannies, and my grandparents on my father’s side. My mother is somewhere out there. Last I tried to track her down around my twentieth birthday she was living with some French vineyard owner in the valleys of Provence.
It’s sad, but I’ve never really missed her. Even after she initially left, I don’t remember crying. You can’t miss someone who never really showed you any kind of motherly love. Now, my father, that’s a different story. His betrayal left me reeling, unable to stand on my own two feet for weeks after he was arrested.
Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One Page 12